


Route 666

by deanau



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1920s, Demons, F/M, Jazz n Blues, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 02:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11887827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanau/pseuds/deanau





	Route 666

ROUTE 666

 

 

_1928, CLARKSDALE, MISSISSIPPI_

She knelt on the cold stone, her knees aching from the prolonged contact with the hard ground. There had been no rain for weeks, and the soil had compacted, had become dry and dusty underfoot. She placed a gentle kiss to the top of the gravestone, and ran her fingers over the plain carving. It read:

**_William James Waters_ **

**_1901 - 1928_ **

**_Beloved Husband_ **

****

As she trailed her fingers back over the indentations in the stone, she rose, then dusted off her knees. She turned from the grave, her head bowed.

 

 

 

_1927, LYON, MISSISSIPPI_

 

He span her around, one foot tapping in time to the beat of the lively music playing in the bar. There was no liquor, but chatter rose and filled the room around them nonetheless. She clasped one of his hands tightly as they moved in sync, their muscles working together in a symphony of movement. He paused, breathing heavily through his laughter, a light sheen of sweat glinting from his forehead and upper lip. He pulled her in, holding her close, before letting her spin out again, rolling along the length of his arm; then they came close once more, and she looked up at him playfully.

“So this is what you wanna do, huh?”

“It’s not what I wanna do, it’s what I will do, darlin’.” He smirked, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I will be the greatest pioneer of the jazz an’ blues movement.”

She reached up slowly, laying her palm along the curve of his cheek. Her wedding ring gleamed as she moved, as it caught the bright lights from above.

“Guess I’ll have to do what I can to help you, then,” she smiled.

“That’s my girl,” he beamed. They kissed, succinct and staccato, but teeming with joy.

 

_1928, CLARKSDALE, MISSISSIPPI_

The inn was packed: a myriad of people sat along the bar, stooped over their drinks with their legs dangling from their stools. Despite the prohibition, the alcohol flowed freely. A young lady crooned softly into a microphone in the corner, filling the space with a warm ambience. She didn’t notice the singer. One hand cradled her stomach; the other was clasping a cold glass of neat whiskey, two fingers deep with no ice.

“Just one won’t do him no harm,” she murmured to herself, her eyes focused on her swollen belly. The hand holding the glass tightened infinitesimally. She leant forward, crossing her arm on the table top.

“Excuse me, doll,” interrupted a wispy-looking old man. His flyaway white hair looked as though it had been left untamed for a great many years.

“Hello?” Her head tilted to the side as she spoke, like that of a timid dog.

“Couldn’t help noticing a pretty thing like you, sat here all alone.” He winked. “Oh! Don’t go bein’ a bluenose, now,” he added, noticing as she shifted uncomfortably.

“Sorry,” she blushed, trying to angle herself so that her protruding stomach was glaringly obvious.

“I’m half-seas over, doll, don’t mind me,” he chuckled. “Could spot your manacle from a mile away, anyway.”

“Not that it does me a lot of good now,” she huffed.

“He a cheat?” The man asked, brusquely.

“Horsefeathers, no! Deceased,” she mumbled into her tumbler. He swayed on his seat, but caught himself by tucking the front of his foot behind the leg of his chair.

 “You’re sad about him. Don’t see many girls keepin’ their rings on. Like you said, it ain’t doing you a whole lot of good now.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“What was he like?”

She paused, considering her answer, taking a sip of her drink. She raised her eyes from the hardwood top of the bar to meet his. He smiled encouragingly.

“He was a good man.”

The man snorted. She looked affronted, and more than a little offended. “What?”

“Sorry, doll. Just that’s all anyone ever seems able to say about someone that’s passed over.”

“Okay. He was ambitious, he was beyond ambitious – wanted to be a blues legend. He dedicated himself to it. He was good, too. Much better than me,” she smiled.

“You don’t play well? I’m not surprised.”

“I know a little,” she backtracked. “Just not a whole lot.”

“Yeah, okay.” He wafted a limp hand in her general direction.

One of the lights flickered overhead. She tilted her glass, watching the amber liquid swill around the edge, before collapsing in on itself and tumbling back into the centre. She could hear his heavy, alcohol-leaden breath next to her.

“D’ya wanna hear ‘bout a local legend? Take your mind off it.”

Tipping the rest of her whiskey down the back of her throat, relishing the burn, she nodded, eyes shut.

“They say, if you go a little ways down the road, to the intersection of Routes 61 and 49, you might see a man who can make all your dreams come true.”

“Is that right?” She asked, dryly.

“Sure is. Gotta give him somethin’ real special, though.”

Despite her scepticism, she couldn’t ignore the possibility that she could do for her husband what death had taken away from him. As unlikely as it seemed, her curiosity had been piqued, and she was determined to find out more.

 

* * *

 

 

A tumbleweed rolled across the dirt ground, being forced uneasily along the uneven pathway. It gathered dust and sand as it went, tying it closer to the ground until, eventually, it stilled. A brown brogue stepped heavily over where it had finally come to rest. Her legs were wrapped in plain grey trousers, straight-legged and business-like. She’d come to sign a contract, after all.

                It was nearing sunset, and the sky had been streaked a series of intertwining colours: pale pinks sinking into deep oranges and dark purples. The clouds lay heavy overhead, menacing grey and drawing in slowly, as though they were creeping towards a shut door.

                She looked at her watch, then at the signpost, stood proudly to the side of the intersection. The pale wood was worn, and much of the writing had rubbed off: just faintly she could see, in unkempt black ink, the names of the roads: sixty-one, and forty-nine.

                There were footsteps approaching. She clung tightly to the straps of her rucksack, pulling it flush against her sweaty back.

                Step, step, step. Stop.

 

* * *

 

 

The library hadn’t had much information for her, though she’d searched tirelessly. Old newspapers had an endless rapport of sightings, and nay-sayers, but nothing solid. Nothing concrete. She’d asked around, eventually, hanging around the grimiest speak-easys and bars, trying not to come across as mad.

                Still, with her hair tangled and scraped back from her face, eyes wide and glazed from lack of sleep, she’d had few people take her seriously. All she could remember from her conversation with the drunkard was the names of the roads.

                The push she’d needed had found her almost by chance, when it came. The sun was lying low in the sky, burnt orange casting shadows across her face; her nose became elongated, prominent, in the darkness. She’d been sat in a small diner, skimming through a newspaper; silhouetted against the window, her figure was lean and black, the frame touching her hairline appearing as though two small horns had grown from her scalp.

                The words had become one, a drowning salvation for her to lose herself in. As she read, her thoughts drifted like a raft on the sea. Her ears attuned themselves to the music playing from a jukebox in the corner. The needle adjusted itself slowly, settling down. It scraped the record, once, twice, and a husky male voice fell from the speaker.

_You promised you'd be just mine, sweetheart_

_That you and I would never part_

_You've broken your vow and left me but now_

_I'll pray that somehow you'll return, sweetheart_

 

                She was reminded of the way he’d hold her hand, the smile he’d reserve just for her, teeth bared and lips pulled wide, untouched by society or manners. His devilish grin before he’d pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and haul her into the bedroom. Lost in thought, she put a hand to her stomach. _Any day now_. The song changed.

 

_Kneelin’ at the crossroad, waitin’ on you_

_Sun’s gone down, soon I will too_

_Come midnight my trail’ll be dust_

_Come midnight, my babe’s gone bust_

_1933, CLARKSDALE, MISSISSIPPI_

She stood, knees aching, and lay the guitar on its stand. The bar was empty: the depression was taking its toll, and business had been ebbing slowly away for weeks. Talent wasn’t everything, it seemed.

The door swung on its hinges behind her. The building loomed in the darkness as she walked towards the setting sun.

                Her knees were coated in a fine layer of dust as soon as she settled, knelt on the hard ground. A sign above proclaimed that she was at the crossroads of routes sixty-one and forty-nine, but she didn’t need to be told. She was all too aware: here, she had made the least equitable deal of her life. Here, she’d lost her unborn child, in exchange for something futile.

                Her hand came to rest on a small wooden cross, planted to the side of the road. It had been hammered in carelessly, and the top splintered, gave way in her hand. A drop of blood glimmered on the soft pad of her fingertip.

                A plaque had been lain beside it.

**_Alice Marie Waters_ **

**_16 th November 1928_ **

**_Beloved Daughter_ **

 

* * *

 

 

References

Rodgers, J. (1928). _I'm Lonely and Blue_.

 

 


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